


(Rode Hard) Put Away Wet

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Canon Rewind, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 17:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2118756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As it turns out, the etiquette for joining a werewolf pack is a little bit more involved than saying, "Whatever, fine, I'm in." There's, like, stupid werewolf rules. Because someone put stupid werewolves in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Rode Hard) Put Away Wet

**Author's Note:**

> I had a seemingly _endless_ supply of inspiration when it came to this prompt. **HEART** said: write post nogitsune established Sterek with Stiles thinking Derek's trying to get some merit badge for putting him back together and Derek thinking he has the touch of death and is just trying everything in his power to keep Stiles _alive_ \- miscommunication relationship-angst for the win. *tosses black glitter* **BRAIN** said: write you some Sterek where the nogitsune left some sort of stain on Stiles that makes him weak to possession, susceptible to it because the door's already been wedged open, and something else takes him up on the offer. Maybe some demon!Stiles and cryptic-explainy-Deaton? *pokey-pokes* **VAGINA** said: duuude, write porn. **VAGINA** won, as it pretty much always does, that twat. So, have you a little canon-rewind, back(?) when these two were both assfaces, featuring fail!Alpha Derek and sixteen-year-old Stiles.
> 
> Written for the fullmoon_ficlet prompt: Stain.

Stiles presses his lips together, squinting up at the moldering beams.  There are layers of rot, jagged bites out of the floor above.  The destruction’s still easier to look at than Derek, who is narrow-eyed and suspicious and perpetually waiting for the next disaster to befall him.  And the guy might be on to something there – hunted, tortured, family dead or corrupt, pack deserting.  There’s a common thread there and it’s the guy with the red eyes.

Stiles’ mouth pulls to the side and he says, “You’re not living here, right?”  He fixes Derek with a wide, blank stare because Stiles kind of suspects he is and he’s trying not to wear on his face how fucking stupid that is.  Derek’s like an abused dog that keeps going back for more, engineering his own misery as often as it rains down on him.  Like now, he’s hunkering down in his family’s ashes.  He’s just… so pathetically tragic but in a way Stiles can’t even sympathize with because eighty-five percent of it is his own doing.  “Here is not a habitable place so I really hope here is not a place you’re trying to... habitate.” 

He most definitely is though.  Because Derek doesn’t want comfort, he doesn’t want warmth or contentedness.  Which is why he picks abandoned railroad depots and condemned homes and the most depressing option available.

Derek does that thing where he doesn’t open his mouth all the way, like he’s afraid he might reveal fangs if he does.  He grinds out the words, “Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles ignores him.  Derek doesn’t know how to accept help, or someone giving a shit, or anything in between.  He lashes out with everything he’s got at the ready – words, claws, dipstick eyebrows.  Stiles shrugs, doesn’t look at Derek as he makes a circuit of the room he’s in and it’s a short walk past really shit-tastic scenery.  Scenery that says, ‘I’m a lost boy living in a skeleton,’ and Stiles doesn’t know how to deal with that level of sad.  There’s a slanted table with a water ring and a worn-down couch and Derek lives here and that’s just… pitiful.

Stiles grabs at the ends of his plaid overshirt, pulls the sides in, stares at the fraying end of his shoelace.  Fraying because he’d spent a class period picking off the plastic end of it because he doesn’t always consider the consequences before he jumps in with both feet.  “Isaac mentioned something about an Alpha pack and Isaac and I don’t  _talk_.”  Stiles shrugs his shoulders.  “Ours is a relationship built on mutual dislike and weather-inappropriate clothing.  I layer; he wraps things around his neck.  In the game of who is mentally more fit,” Stiles grins proudly, “I have pulled far ahead.” 

Contrary to Stiles’ inability to meet Derek’s gaze, Derek’s done nothing but stare at him since he walked through the door.  “Go.  Home,” he growls at him, like the words themselves can physically push him out the door.

Because Derek doesn’t know him at all, obviously.  Telling him not to do something only makes him want to do it harder, giving him an order immediately makes him want to disobey it.  Yeah, he’s totally that kid, but he’s really upfront about being that kid and Derek doesn’t know it.

He kicks at the leg of the table, watches it jump across a charred floorboard and sees Derek’s eyes flash in his periphery.  Stiles looks at him properly, sees Derek staring down at his own hands where claws seem to be sprouting entirely independent of him.

Stiles blinks.  “Okay, that is the second time I’ve seen that,” the first being yesterday, with the dropped fangs and the huffy breathing while Derek roared himself back under control,  “and  _that_ —that is not giving me warm and fuzzy, bad-girl-not-in-public feelings.”

Derek snarls at him but there’s something like shame in the unnatural glow of his eyes. 

Stiles takes a step closer, because big neon signs spelling out ‘danger’ are generally hiding all the really cool stuff.  That doesn’t mean he’s not afraid, because he is afraid of Derek.  (There’s no loyalty there but they’ve saved each other’s lives so there’s not blanket ill will either.  From either side.)  It just means he’s not about to let his fear dictate which direction he moves in.

He catches Derek’s eye and it’s funny how their positions shift just like that.  Derek’s gaze as hard to hold on to as water and Stiles’ fixed.  “I’ve heard,” Stiles starts slowly, “from a mentally unfit source, that your anchor is anger.”  A low rumble comes from Derek but he hasn’t made any sudden moves and Stiles relaxes slightly.  “But you’re not angry, are you?  You’re just scared.”  He doesn’t mean it to sound as accusatory as it does.

Derek’s eyes flash when he looks up, catching the dying light through a break in the boards.  “I’m not  _afraid_.”

And it’s so obvious that he is.  He looks cornered, ready to attack at the first indication that he should – maybe even if there’s just too long a pause, and while there’s a part of Stiles that wants to  _disprove_  the words, there’s a bigger part that wants to let Derek know he’s in good company.  “You’d be an idiot not to be,” Stiles says bluntly.  And it’s true.  Stiles is afraid.  He’s spent half his life that way, afraid death wouldn’t be satisfied with just his mom and would take his dad too, afraid Scott’s next asthma attack would be his last, afraid Lydia would never learn so much as his nickname.  The trick was not to let the fear slow him down, to do nothing but live life harder in response.  Fear wasn’t something to be ashamed of, it was a driving force.  “An entire pack of supersoldier werewolves is circling you and picking off your allies one by one.  You’d be an idiot not to be scared.”

Derek stares at him, gauging, like he can’t believe Stiles resisted the urge to poke at a spot he knew was sensitive.  To be fair, it kind of surprises Stiles too.  Derek swallows, looks away, chokes out the words, “They’re isolating me, taking my pack, that’s—They’re isolating me.”

And it’s not much, but it’s information—probably all of it that Derek has, horrible Alpha that he is, and he gave it without much prying.  Stiles gave him permission to be afraid and Derek gave him the Alpha pack’s game plan in return.  Stiles can work with this.  Tit for tat is something he understands.  “So, you need more?” he surmises.  “More pack?”

Derek nods like it’s painful.

Stiles thinks his way into and around it.  Erica and Boyd have deserted, Isaac’s closer to Scott than to Derek and Derek’s already killed Peter once.  That doesn’t leave a lot of options.  Derek could make more but—“Preferably pack you can get without going around and biting a new crop of the shittiest, most unstable teenagers you can find.  Super swell job there, by the way.”  Derek’s lip raises but he doesn’t argue that – likely because he  _can't_  – and Stiles straightens his spine, holds his hands out, palms facing out by his hips, and says, “All right, okay.  It’s not much but I’m yours, I’m in.”  He thrusts out his chin, squares his jaw.  “Sign me up.”

Derek looks like he took a two-by-four to the face.  “You want me to bite you?” he says finally, almost laughing, but it’s shaky and uneven like he doesn’t know how he got here.

Stiles shakes his head, the idea cementing more and more as he thinks it through.  He flexes his fingers into his palms.  “The way I understand this,” he says slowly, “I can stay all wimpy and weak and still learn the secret society handshake.”  He winks.  “Also, full disclosure, I’m holding out for decoder rings.”

“You’re Scott’s,” Derek says stupidly. 

Stiles’ mood darkens.  “Not so—” he stops himself because he’s about to get whiny and mean and that’s not what he’s here for.  He makes himself snort like it’s no big deal that he can count the number of times he’s seen Scott this summer on one hand, “getting over Allison has turned out to be just as time-consuming as getting under her.  There’s no conflict of interest here,” he insists.  “Scott doesn’t want a pack, doesn’t want to be a werewolf really, so I can be in yours.” 

Derek’s shaking his head but it doesn’t seem to be so much in response to what Stiles is saying as much as it is in response to what he’s  _thinking_  about what Stiles is saying—not that Stiles has any idea what that is.  Derek’s one of the most inscrutable dudes he’s ever met.  With all the manpain and anger issues though, there doesn’t seem to be room for much else so it’s hard to glean what that ‘else’ might be when it does come around.  “It doesn’t work like that,” Derek says, almost like he’s pissed it doesn’t, “you can’t just—”

“So tell me how it works,” Stiles cuts him off.  He’s decided this now and he’s not backing down from it.  Erica and Boyd are kind of shitty but Stiles still feels weirdly attached to their well-being.  They’re the same age, the same class, they could be him but for whatever random factor kept him from being them.  And he’s saved Derek’s life a few times now, he kind of wants to make sure the guy doesn’t throw it away the first chance he gets.  (Because he seems the type.)  No better way than to drink the Kool-Aid, get the induction and watch him like a friggin’ hawk.  “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Derek doesn’t look at him some more.  He stares off into a random corner, chews up and spits out the words, “I’d have to mark you.”

“What, like, with your teeth,” Stiles starts, defiant, “because that is not gonna—” 

“Scent,” Derek says firmly, eyes working hard over thin air like he’s planning this out with as much forethought as Stiles did the offer.  He squares his jaw, decided.  “Scent could work.” 

The way Derek says it sounds… ominous.  Stiles shifts on his feet, says awkwardly, “So, what?  We just hug it out, share sweat, swap underwear?  Or something else?”

Derek’s jaw tightens so much something cracks.

Stiles swallows, realizes where the fuck this is going and how far in over his head he is.  He says the answer blankly, “Or something else.”  Scott had said it once, had talked about what it was like with Allison when Stiles had decided he was more curious than grossed out and Scott had said it felt like he was branding the both of them.

Derek looks pained again, starts and stops and grits his teeth.  “I could—It doesn’t have to be—” he glances up at Stiles for the first time in a while now, looking lost and desperate for him to cut in and make him  _stop_  trying to explain before he does it for himself.  He closes the distance between them, angry, brows drawn and glowery.  Stiles stumbles backwards without conscious thought behind it, into the couch, and he tumbles down in an undignified sprawl.  It doesn’t even slow Derek down.  He presses the heel of his palm into Stiles’ shoulder, rolls him over so Stiles’ nose is pressed to a musty cushion and then Derek’s weight is sitting heavy on top of his ass.  “Just—” 

“Derek,” Stiles says dumbly, wriggling around underneath him, trying to get his hands under his chest because there’s something unwelcomely vulnerable about being pinned under Derek like that.  He doesn’t want Derek off of him, not yet, but he wants the option to be available should he choose to exercise it.

Derek shifts in response to his own adjusting and Stiles can feel him through the layers of both their jeans.  At least he thinks he can but maybe he’s just so desperate to have someone want him, for someone to think about him  _that way_  that even Derek Hale will do.

“I won’t touch you more than I have to,” Derek says and his voice comes out throaty and broken and Stiles didn’t imagine it.  Derek’s hard on top of him.

There are hands on his hips.  Large, smooth, warm palms and it’s so odd that Derek’s hands don’t match him, don’t show roughness or calluses or scars – in fact, none of his body reflects his past, shows what he’s survived.  It feels like a crock.  Derek’s holding him down as much as he’s just holding him and his hips jerk once across the stretch of Stiles’ jeans over his ass.

Derek is going to rut against him like a dog in heat and Stiles has no idea how he got here.  He wants to see Derek, to see if he looks like he hates this as much as he seems to hate breathing or if maybe there’s finally something new on his face.  As it is, Stiles can’t do more than try not to get overheated, trapped between fabric that doesn’t breathe and a werewolf’s body heat.

Derek’s humping him slow and steady and somehow Stiles gets the feeling that he doesn’t really have that much more experience with this than Stiles’ big fat zero.  He seems to be making a concerted effort not to seem like he wants it, to make it clear that this is nothing more than a business transaction, but the fact that he didn’t have to work to get hard –  _at all_  – kind of bears that out as utter bullshit.

And the quick boner is getting Stiles’ own to make an appearance, because someone as definition-perfect as Derek Hale wants him.  It’s heady and, yeah, Stiles is fucking turned on because he can so obviously turn someone else on.  Turned on up to eleven because that someone is someone so far out of his league it’s laughable.

Derek’s still pacing his way through it and Stiles doesn’t want this to be that easy.  Easy is boring and his first sexual experience is not going to be boring.  He presses his ass up into Derek with the next thrust of Derek’s hard-on and the hands on his hips clamp down and Derek takes in a sharper cut of air.

The weight poises above him and Derek’s dick stops dragging.  He’s breathing hard enough that Stiles can hear it and he grinds out the words, “Stiles, I don’t need you to—”

“ _I_  need you to,” Stiles gasps out, because if Derek thinks they can find their way back to some standoffish relationship after they’ve dry humped, then he’s completely delusional.  There’s no need to strive for some semblance of detachment when they’re actively wrecking any hope for it.   Stiles shifts his ass up into Derek’s dick and whines, “Derek, come on,  _harder_.”  He spreads his legs as much as he can between Derek’s thighs, until Derek is thrusting up against his crack more than his cheek and, fuck, it feels… bold, sends a shiver down his spine.

Derek lets out a harsh breath and the hands leave Stiles’ hips to clamp down over his shoulders and then Derek’s  _grinding_  into him with a breathy, “Fuck,  _Stiles_.”

Stiles gets hotter under his clothes and under Derek, skin prickling and damp.  He gets more desperate to come and his shirt gets pushed up his back while Derek groans and humps so hard against Stiles’ ass that it’s moving him up a few inches every time.  He’s at the point where he’s lost to anything but the promise of an orgasm, can’t think beyond chasing it.  He circles his hips under Derek’s, pushes up and back, makes him moan and clench fingers too roughly around his biceps. 

There’s a mess of movement between Stiles’ crack and Derek’s cock and then Derek’s grunting hard and coming all over his sweat-slick back.  Derek doesn’t luxuriate in the moment, hand immediately coming up to work it into Stiles’ skin, the other presumably still holding on to his spent dick.  His hips are still moving in time with Stiles’, balls dragging against his ass cheek almost mindlessly and Derek is so fucking  _lost_  in him.

It’s good.  It’s really fucking good and Stiles accidentally bites his own tongue as his orgasm takes him by surprise. 

Derek’s weight doesn’t settle, even for a second, and then Stiles is bereft of the stifling heat and Derek is sitting next to his hip on the small sliver of couch available.  Stiles can see him now, red-faced and with sweat dripping down from his hairline.  He definitely looks like he just had sex with his clothes on.  He heaves out a broken breath, rubs a hand over his face.  He’s not looking at Stiles when he says, almost more accuses, “You keep showing up.”

Stiles wants to move, wants to roll over, wants to pretend like he can hold a normal conversation and that everything between them hasn’t shifted.  But his limbs are still stringy and he’s panting and he just had sex so, yeah, this isn’t a normal conversation and stuff’s definitely shifted.  He rubs at his nose, which is wrinkling up like he might sneeze, and says nonchalantly, “Yeah, it’s what I do.  To an almost pathological degree, it’s what I do.”

Derek twitches his head back to look at him rather than facing away, ass pressed to Stiles’ hipbone, and his gaze gets caught on Stiles’ back, which is still exposed and heaving.  Derek swallows, looks away.  “I—” he clenches his jaw, “It’s done, you’ve been marked.”

Stiles sits up gingerly, tugs at the hem of his shirt and pulls a face at the damp spots in the fabric.  “Stained, more like.” 

Derek’s staring at his own hands and Stiles gets that instinct took him here and didn’t have the common courtesy to take him back.

He touches Derek’s shoulder hesitantly and says, “You marked me as your pack, that’s all it has to mean.  It’s okay if that’s all it means.”

Derek’s jaw clenches harder and he curls his fingers into his palms, forms fists. 

“Derek.”  Stiles clears his throat.  “If it means more than that, then I could—yeah, I could be okay with that too.”  And it’s beyond insanity because they don’t even like each other but Stiles could do that about a thousand more times and not get tired of it. 

Derek scowls and he tells his knees, “You’re so much more than ‘not much.’”  Stiles blinks but Derek isn’t done.  “You’re not weak or wimpy.  You can’t—” he smirks, kind of cruel and kind of encouraging in the same expression, “that’s my pack you’re talking about so just shut the fuck up.”

Stiles grins.  “Not exactly my strong su—”

“Also my possible future,” he says more quietly, ignoring Stiles’ interjection.  And Stiles’ heart gorges itself on blood as much as his dick does at the declaration and he might, maybe, want Derek in  _all the ways_.  Huh.  Derek tops off the warning with, “You don’t get to talk that down.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees and it feels they made a pact or a promise, something new and something with a hell of a lot of potential.  Stiles is surprisingly all right with it.

Watching the tips of Derek’s ears go red, he thinks Derek might be too.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/) because I... use my time wisely.


End file.
